The flamingos were clucking louder than ever and Butlins was beginning to flap as a couple emerged from the registry office into the drizzle surrounded by a lake of smiles and a fountain of confetti. The groom was small and rotund with buckteeth, his bride dressed in a powder blue suit clutching a bunch of white Chrysanth’s and looking as if she’d just had three fillings and an extraction.
Roger began to feel sick again.
Butlins grabbed him by the elbow, the flamingos moving forward enmasse as if last orders had just been called. The fried bacon and egg began to ferment and Roger began to lose control of his bodily functions. He tried to will the feeling away, Butlins’ broad face turning to granulated sugar when he realised the blushing groom had taken on the demeanour of a man about to evacuate all orifices simultaneously.